


the hounds of love are hunting

by wordslinging



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mating Rituals, Soulmates, history being used as an extremely shaky scaffolding for AU shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordslinging/pseuds/wordslinging
Summary: In the third year of the Hunt, in accordance with the Treaty of Jerusalem, Nicolo di Genova and Yusuf Al-Kaysani are chosen as tributes for their respective homelands.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 11
Kudos: 249





	the hounds of love are hunting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following kink meme prompt: “Pretend the crusades eventually ended peacefully or make this completely au with some other conflict ending in a negotiated peace. Part of the peace negotiations include participation of select members of each side engaging in a mate hunt thus causing multiple joinings of both sides of the conflict and ensuring that a repeat of the conflict won’t be happening any time soon.
> 
> The selected participants are composed of hunters and prey. If a prey is successfully caught by a hunter, the hunter gets to keep them as a mate. 
> 
> Joe is one of the selected hunters of his side, Nicky is one of the selected prey.“
> 
> I’m using real history as an extremely loose foundation here and I’ve probably done, like...30% of the work this AU would need to stand on its own outside of a kink meme prompt, shhhhhhh just go with it.
> 
> A note on the implied/referenced noncon tag: Everything that happens between Joe and Nicky here is consensual, but the implication that tributes chosen for the hunt don’t really have the option to refuse is there. It doesn’t play a big factor in the story but, y’know, heads-up for that being a thing.

In the third year of the Hunt, Mdina is chosen by lottery as the host city, and Nicolo is chosen as one of the tributes from Genoa. 

He stands with the other tributes—all of age, unmarried, and childless—as a priest blesses them and the ship that will stop in other ports to gather more tributes before carrying them all to Malta. They are ambassadors of Christ, the priest tells them, chosen to either bear His love and mercy to foreign lands or bring their foreign brides and bridegrooms home to Christendom. They are the vessels through which God will bring continued peace to His children.

The waters of the Mediterranean are crowded with ships headed to the same destination; from Spain, from northern Africa, from the Holy Land. As they crowd into the Grand Harbor at Malta, the tributes wait below deck as instructed, but they can hear the bustle of activity above, the crews of the ships yelling greetings and jokes and insults to each other in too many tongues to count. 

Once disembarked, the tributes are escorted under heavy guard to Mdina and the dormitories that have been prepared for them. The guards are there to keep any nervous tributes from bolting, but also to protect them—the Hunt has proceeded without interruption or catastrophe for three years now, but there are still many who think it madness and heresy.

Once the tributes have had time to refresh, wash, and dress themselves, they are again escorted by guards, back outside the city walls to the villa where the Drawing will take place.

Nicolo has never witnessed a Hunt before—the first was held, fittingly, in Jerusalem, the second in Constantinople—but he has heard that the first was a solemn, tense affair, everyone waiting to see if it would proceed successfully. That tension reportedly eased with the second, and by this time it’s taken on something of a festival atmosphere. The gathered tributes are still serious, but their hosts have laid a magnificent feast for them, and there are musicians playing and guests who’ve come to observe the proceedings, including some tributes from the first two Hunts, arm in arm with their spouses.

Nicolo can understand people being drawn by the spectacle; a few years ago he could not have imagined a gathering such as this. The Hunt may have its detractors, but the rewards speak for themselves: peace in lands that were torn by strife and war for years, political and economic alliances that could not have been fathomed before, and the promise of safe passage for pilgrims in the Holy Land, whatever faith they may be of.

As the Drawing approaches, Nicolo feels a flutter of nervousness for the first time since his name was called back in Genoa. In less than an hour, he’ll know whether he’s been chosen as hunter or prey, what role he’ll take in the Hunt tomorrow. To calm his nerves, he escapes the press of bodies in the feasting hall and takes a walk in the garden, letting the cool evening breeze and the scents of olive trees and rosemary and lilies soothe him.

His thoughts still on what’s to come, Nicolo turns a corner and nearly collides with a man coming the other way. Both of them automatically reach to steady the other, apologies on their lips that die away as they look each other in the face. 

“I know you,” Nicolo says, startled, at the same moment as the other man says “It’s you”.

_They met only once before, but it was impossible to forget. It was the final day of the siege of Jerusalem, the battle so long and terrible that when word of the peace talks came, soldiers on both sides welcomed it at any cost._

_There they crossed blades as enemies, only to find themselves so evenly matched that neither could do more than land a glancing blow on the other. Instead of turning aside to seek an easier opponent, Nicolo felt an obsession bloom in him, the need to prove himself the better warrior, and caught a spark of the same madness in the Muslim soldier’s eyes._

_So they had fought, with sword and scimitar, and then with daggers, and finally with their bare hands and anything they could lay hold of. They’d still been entangled—the Muslim with his hand around Nicolo’s throat, Nicolo groping in the dirt around them and closing his hand on a stone—when trumpets blew from the city walls and heralds for both sides ran through the battlefield shouting news of a truce. The two of them had frozen, staring into each other’s eyes, and then the Muslim released his grip on Nicolo, staggering back._

_Nicolo can envision, quite clearly, a world in which he did not drop his stone. Where he made taking this man’s life his last act of war and did whatever penance would be required of him later. But that world is not this one, the one in which he let the stone fall and took the other man’s hand when it was offered to help him up._

_“My name is Yusuf,” the man said as they stood there, hands clasped._

_“Nicolo,” Nicolo replied._

_The Muslim—Yusuf—nodded. “Peace be upon you, Nicolo,” he’d said, and then he was gone, but for a single glance over his shoulder as he hurried away._

“Yusuf,” Nicolo says now, watching the shock of recognition on the other’s face turn to a small, wondering smile. 

“Nicolo,” Yusuf says. They’re still holding onto each other, Yusuf’s hand firm around Nicolo’s upper arm and Nicolo’s braced on Yusuf’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?” 

The realization hits Nicolo and he steps back, breaking Yusuf’s grip and clenching his own hands at his sides. “The same thing as you, if my guess is right,” he replies, and Yusuf takes his meaning, stepping back as well.

Physical contact between tributes before the Hunt is not, strictly speaking, forbidden, but it is strongly discouraged. 

Before either of them can say another word, they hear calls from the villa, summoning all tributes back inside for the Drawing. 

Nicolo’s head spins as they walk back through the garden side-by-side. He might have killed this man, or been killed by him. Now he might hunt or be hunted by him. There’s no real reason to think it will go that way—they could both draw hunter or both draw prey, and if they do end up on opposite sides there’s no guarantee they’ll end up together. 

But it feels a little too much like fate for them to meet again here, now. Nicolo keeps glancing at Yusuf, at his broad shoulders and tumble of dark curls and the spark of curiosity in his warm, dark eyes. Every so often when Nicolo looks at him he finds Yusuf looking back, and quickly averts his gaze as if stung. He thinks back to their fight in Jerusalem and wonders what it would be like to match wits with him in the Hunt. Would he seek Nicolo out as a hunter, if it goes that way? Would he welcome Nicolo’s attention as prey? 

While the trappings surrounding it have become more celebratory, the Drawing itself is still a solemn, ritualistic process. Boxes at the front of the hall hold white and black stones—an equal number of each, as there are an equal number of male and female tributes and equal numbers of participants from every nation bound by the Treaty of Jerusalem. Nicolo goes to stand with the others from Genoa, and sees Yusuf join a group under the banner of Tunis. One by one, they draw blind, holding the small, smooth stones in closed fists until the order comes to reveal them. 

Nicolo stares at the white stone in his hand, then looks up, eyes drawn to Yusuf as if by a magnet. He holds up his white stone, and sees a slow grin spread across Yusuf’s face as he holds up his own black one.

***

A long time from now, scholars studying the Hunt will discuss the observable shift in behavior said to take place in tributes after the Drawing. However they have acted up to this point, once the stones are revealed they begin to fall into their roles, to behave as hunters and prey. 

Here, in the third year of the Hunt, Yusuf has no conception of wider behavioral trends. He just knows that as he grins across the room at Nicolo--beautiful, fierce Nicolo who holds a white stone--he sees the other man’s eyes widen and his throat move as he swallows, and Yusuf wants to stalk toward him like a wolf.

The rules of what happens next are clear: tributes are allowed to mingle for the rest of the feast, allowing hunters and prey to observe each other in a controlled environment. Once they return to their dormitories—lodged now with their fellow hunters or prey rather than the groups they arrived in—they will be guarded even more closely than before, kept separate until the Hunt begins tomorrow.

While they remain at the feast, there is nothing to stop interested tributes from speaking to each other, flirting, even declaring intent, though this does not come without risk. Once the Hunt begins, prior claims or connections count for nothing, and if a hunter wants a certain prey they had better make damn sure no other hunter beats them to it.

Yusuf knows this, and seeks Nicolo anyway.

He finds him alone on a terrace overlooking the same garden where they met by chance or providence earlier. Nicolo is facing the garden at first, but as Yusuf emerges from the house he turns. 

“So,” he says, following Yusuf’s approach with watchful eyes. “Hunter.” 

“Prey,” Yusuf replies, feeling the wolfish smile grow on his face again. “Unless you’ve lost your edge these past few years, I expect you’ll put us through our paces tomorrow.”

Nicolo gives a faint smile, a barely-there quirk of his lips. “As it should be. If I’m to be hunted, then the hunter who brings me down had better prove themselves worthy.”

“Well said.” Yusuf comes up to lean against the balustrade beside him. He looks out at the garden for a moment, watching the trees and bushes sway in the evening breeze.

“I want you to know,” he says softly, “that if we were meeting again in different circumstances I would ask you to walk down into the garden with me. I would ask about your home, and tell you of mine, and I very well might do something foolish like take your hand or try to kiss you.”

He looks up to find Nicolo still watching him. His eyes are wide and pale in the twilight, their sea-glass color as arresting now as it was on the battlefield. “If the circumstances were different, we might never have met again at all,” he points out. 

“True,” Yusuf says, and then he moves right into Nicolo’s space, bracing a hand on either side of him. He doesn’t touch him—he won’t flaunt the conventions of the Hunt that much—but he boxes Nicolo in with his arms and stands close enough that he can hear the other man’s breath catch in his throat.

Yusuf tilts his head down and leans in until his mouth is an inch from Nicolo’s neck, inhaling deeply. Nicolo smells of lavender and herbs—the same as the soap Yusuf bathed with earlier, likely it’s in all the tribute dormitories—but beneath that he smells of sweat and the sea.

“I know there are no guarantees for what tomorrow holds,” Yusuf whispers to him. “I know I can make no promises. But I mean to have you, Nicolo. I don’t intend to see you walk away from here wed to another.”

Nicolo is trembling, very faintly. He’s tensed as if for fight or flight, holding himself back from either, and if Yusuf wasn’t so close he couldn’t see the tremor in his limbs or the way his pulse jumps in his throat. “Then let us hope you’ll be the hunter who proves worthy of me,” he whispers back.

Yusuf takes another deep breath of him and then draws back, ghosting his mouth along the line of Nicolo’s jaw, still not actually touching him but as close to a kiss as he can manage for now. Then he steps away, not wanting to push his luck any further. 

“Sleep well,” he says as he turns back toward the house. “I’ll see you at the Hunt.”

***

In the morning, many of the tributes rise at dawn to pray, Fajr for the Muslims and Lauds for the Christians. Some of them will try to keep up with their prayers while on the Hunt, despite the risks and delays of stopping to do so. Others say a full day’s worth now and ask God’s forgiveness for not praying properly throughout the day as they should. After that they break bread, the meal somber and quiet compared to last night’s feast, make their final preparations, and report to the gathering at the city gate.

The hunting ground covers a wide swath of hills and woodland outside Mdina, its borders patrolled by guards. The prey will be set loose in it first, to run or hide where they may before the hunters follow. Most of the tributes, men and women alike, are dressed in light, close-fitting garments--nothing to slow them down or snag on a branch or bramble--and carry a little food and water with them, not knowing how long they'll be out on the Hunt.

As Nicolo takes his place among the prey, he can feel the weight of Yusuf's gaze on him, and knows exactly where to look to find the other man in the ranks of the hunters. 

He's never felt this sort of pull to anyone before, like an invisible rope tying them together. They've barely spoken, but it feels as if Yusuf knows him as no one else ever has or will, and when he thinks of last night--Yusuf's arms on either side of him, Yusuf's breath against his neck as he'd whispered _I mean to have you_ —Nicolo goes hot and shivery all over.

Nicolo makes himself face forward, focusing on the task at hand. Right now it doesn’t matter what he feels for Yusuf or what Yusuf feels for him. Right now he’s prey, and the Hunt is about to begin.

The starting call comes, and Nicolo runs. There’s a flurry of motion around him, but he pays no mind to what anyone else is doing, just makes for the treeline ahead and keeps running until he’s surrounded by green. 

He slows, then, picking his way through the underbrush carefully so as to leave as little trace of his passage as possible. The sun is high overhead, its light filtering down through the trees, when he judges he’s gone far enough. He finds a suitable place to wait, high ground with good visibility and a fallen tree for cover, and settles in.

Nicolo is very good at waiting. He waits as the sun reaches its zenith, and then as it starts to sink. A few times he hears noise or sees movement in the forest around him and tenses, ready to move if he needs to, but his perch stays undiscovered.

The daylight is starting to fade when Nicolo catches the sound of a twig snapping. He glances to his right, where the noise came from, and a little thrill goes through him when he sees just how close Yusuf has managed to get without Nicolo detecting him.

Yusuf freezes when he realizes he’s been spotted, and the two of them lock eyes across the distance. Then Nicolo launches himself into motion, turning to flee further up the slope behind him.

Nicolo crests the ridge and hurries down the other side, feet steady beneath him. He can hear Yusuf behind him, moving fast now that he’s abandoned stealth. The trees are starting to break up, giving them fewer obstacles to dodge, and Nicolo does everything he can to keep his lead, but when he has to climb again he can tell Yusuf is gaining on him. For a moment Nicolo swears he feels fingers graze his ankle, but he pulls himself up and out of reach.

He makes it to the top of the next rise before Yusuf grabs him around the waist. Nicolo tries to wrench himself free and stumbles forward a few more steps, dragging Yusuf along with him. Then there’s the lurching sensation of the ground dropping away, and they’re tumbling down the other side of the hill together. 

Yusuf still has Nicolo around the middle and pulls him close as they fall, curling himself around Nicolo’s back. Nicolo instinctively tucks his head down, one arm shielding his face and the other hand gripping Yusuf’s arm. They land hard, the breath knocked from them both, and lie there for several moments, panting.

“Are you all right?” Yusuf asks eventually. His arm is still around Nicolo, but loosely now. 

“I think so,” Nicolo answers. He pushes himself into a sitting position, looking over his shoulder. “You?”

“Yes,” Yusuf answers.

Nicolo takes another moment to catch his breath, to steady himself. Then he rolls away from Yusuf and onto his feet. 

Yusuf, still on the ground, looks at him like he’s just done something deeply unfair. “I caught you,” he protests. 

Nicolo backs away from him with a smirk. “Do I look caught?”

Yusuf lets out a growl as he pushes himself up, and Nicolo turns and runs. His legs are still shaky from the fall and he doesn’t expect to get far, but that’s not the point.

Sure enough, he only makes it a few more yards before Yusuf tackles him from behind, the ground thankfully level beneath them when they fall this time.

Yusuf takes no chances the second time around. He rolls Nicolo onto his back and straddles his hips, catching one wrist and then the other and pressing them to ground above his head. Nicolo twists and bucks under him. He doesn’t want to get away; he wants to see how tightly Yusuf will hold him. 

He gives one last effort, pushing up until his back bows. Yusuf stays firmly atop him, his hands a vise around Nicolo’s wrists, letting him strain and struggle until he gives up. Finally Nicolo goes limp under him, still but for the heaving of his breath and the hammering of his heart. 

Yusuf bends toward him, eyes fixed on Nicolo’s parted lips. Nicolo lets his tongue dart out to wet them and waits, but Yusuf doesn’t take his mouth, not yet. His eyes lift to meet Nicolo’s, dark with wanting and wide with anticipation. 

“Will you yield to me, Nicolo?” he asks softly. “Will you let me have you?” 

“Yes,” Nicolo replies breathlessly. “Please, Yusuf, yes, anything you want, _please_ —“

Yusuf saves him from having to beg any longer (and he would, he’d beg for Yusuf’s mouth and hands and whatever else he’ll give, beg until his voice gives out), closing the last distance between them to cover Nicolo’s mouth with his.

***

It's better than Yusuf could have imagined; Nicolo's lithe, strong body beneath him, the scent of crushed grass and damp earth all around them, Nicolo's sweet lips parting under his. 

Yusuf kisses him gently at first, then deeper, probing with his tongue to learn the shape of Nicolo’s mouth. He slides his hands up from Nicolo’s wrists to lace their fingers together, still pressing his hands to the ground although Nicolo’s stopped struggling.

He's been hard since he pinned Nicolo under him, and he leans forward to let his cock press against Nicolo's stomach, wanting him to feel it. Nicolo gasps and rocks his hips up to let Yusuf know he's in a similar state, stiff cock nudging Yusuf's backside in a way that makes him briefly reconsider his plan to take Nicolo first.

Yusuf breaks the kiss and sits back on his heels to look at him, releasing his wrists as he does so. Nicolo reaches up to twine his arms around Yusuf's neck, licking kiss-swollen lips and pressing up against Yusuf again. His begs for more with his body, and Yusuf has no intention of denying him.

He pushes Nicolo's tunic up to reveal a pale expanse of smooth skin and taut muscle, the lines of Nicolo's ribs and a scattering of moles Yusuf is going to spend hours mapping with his mouth later. For now, he just skims his palm across the softness of Nicolo's lower belly before unlacing his trousers to let his cock spring free, flushed dark with blood and leaking wetness at the tip.

Yusuf undoes his own trousers and gets his cock out, watching Nicolo’s eyes darken as he takes in the sight of it. Yusuf moves on top of him again, draping his body over Nicolo’s, and Nicolo clutches him with both arms, moaning as their cocks rub together.

“I wanted it to be you,” Nicolo says in his ear while Yusuf tilts his head down to kiss his neck. “I’ve had eyes for no one else here since we met in the garden. If we’d drawn the other way around, if I’d been the hunter, I would never have stopped until I had you.”

“I know,” Yusuf pants against his neck. He can’t imagine any other outcome to this day, can’t fathom the two of them not ending up together. “I have you now, Nico. I won’t let go.”

Nicolo makes an almost shocked noise as he comes, spilling between them. Yusuf kisses him and strokes his hair as Nicolo clings to him. 

When Nicolo comes back to himself, he reaches a hand between them, touching Yusuf’s cock. “You haven’t finished,” he says.

There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, like he’s afraid Yusuf doesn’t want this as much as he does, when the truth is Yusuf wants too much. He wants to fuck Nicolo right here in the dirt, mark him as his inside and out. He wants to wait, wants a soft bed beneath them and scented oils to ease the way when he takes Nicolo for the first time.

“Nicolo,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “I want to be inside you, but if you'd rather we wait—“

Nicolo shakes his head. “Please don’t make me wait.” He swipes a hand through the wetness on his belly and reaches down further, trying to shove his fingers into himself. 

Yusuf grabs his wrist. “Let me,” he says. “Let me, Nico.”

He kisses Nicolo and gathers his cooling spend in one hand, then moves back to give him room. “Turn over for me, sweet,” he says, and Nicolo scrambles to get on his hands and knees. Yusuf bends over and kisses the base of his spine as his slick fingers find Nicolo’s entrance and press in. 

Nicolo urges him on in a low voice, rocking back against Yusuf’s fingers, hands clenching in the dirt. When Yusuf replaces his fingers with his cock, thrusting into him with long, smooth strokes, he tosses his head back with a sharp cry. Yusuf braces one arm on the ground and brings the other around Nicolo’s chest to hold him tight. He’s not going to last long, not as tightly wound as he is, not with Nicolo’s tight heat surrounding him and the sounds he’s making.

“You feel so good inside me,” Nicolo gasps. He covers Yusuf’s hand with his own and drags them both down to his cock, rapidly filling again. “Make me come again. I want to come with you in me.”

It’s a demand, not a request. Yusuf thinks he likes Nicolo demanding things from him. He wraps his hand around Nicolo’s length, stroking hard and fast until Nicolo spills over his fingers, sobbing. The way he shakes in Yusuf’s grip and tightens around him has Yusuf tipping over the edge with a groan, pouring himself into Nicolo’s body.

“Stay inside me,” Nicolo insists as Yusuf steers them to lie down on their sides. Yusuf slides one arm under Nicolo’s head, the other holding him around the middle.

It’s a fair night, clear and not too cold. Yusuf reaches out to drag their supplies over from where they’d been dropped during the earlier struggle, and they eat and drink, Yusuf feeding Nicolo bites with his fingers. 

They could get up and go back to the city now, together, but it seems neither of them wants to stir yet. Even with the woods behind them and open country before and other tributes likely still out here somewhere, it feels like they've carved out a private space for themselves here, a stretch of time to be alone in each other's arms before they have to report back to their handlers. They lie wrapped up in each other, talking in low voices, as the night deepens around them. 

Every time Yusuf starts to pull out, Nicolo begs him to stay, so he does. He gets hard again like that, still inside Nicolo; Nicolo's cock stays soft against his thigh, but he tips his head back to nip at the underside of Yusuf's jaw and murmurs "Have me again," so Yusuf does, holding Nicolo tight against him and fucking him with hard, short thrusts.

"I'm going to take you home to Tunis with me,” he says in between bites and sucking kisses to Nicolo's neck and shoulder. "I'm going to show you the city, every place I loved as a boy, and then we'll go to Genoa and do the same thing there. But before we do any of that, I'm going to keep you in my bed for days and make love to you until you lose your voice from screaming with pleasure."

Nicolo shudders, clenching around him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says, so Yusuf grips him around the waist and fucks him harder, until Nicolo’s cries ring through the night air around them as Yusuf comes inside him with a long moan.

Yusuf does pull out this time, makes Nicolo hiss by prodding his stretched, puffy rim with his fingers. Nicolo turns in his arms and Yusuf marvels at how he looks lit only by the moon and stars, his skin silvery and his pale eyes luminous.

“We should go back soon,” he says, even as he nestled into Yusuf’s arms, looking as though he has no plans to leave them any time soon.

“We should,” Yusuf replies, stroking Nicolo’s cheek with the backs of his fingers and leaning in to kiss him. 

Eventually they will go back, and bathe and sleep. In the morning, their names will be recorded as a matched pair, their marriage blessed by both a priest and an imam. They’ll enter the closing feast hand in hand, sit side by side among their fellow tributes in their own new marriages. Wherever they go after that, they’ll go together, their union sanctioned by God in the eyes of both their people, bound together by a tie none can sever.


End file.
